


Vanity, Overriding Wisdom

by WheatleyHastings



Category: Julian Casablancas + The Voidz
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 20:04:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17049701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WheatleyHastings/pseuds/WheatleyHastings
Summary: Julian, haunted by his own success, takes a walk in the Hollywood Forever Cemetery.Based on prompts given by a course I was taking. This was the shortened 4 page version I submitted for a grade. Formatted poorly, just want to put this on the web.





	Vanity, Overriding Wisdom

Once backstage, I glance at my phone – it’s 12:51. The show wrapped up just a couple minutes ago. I can smell the beer in everyone’s breath, the venue is full of it. Beardo, Jake, and Amir are heading down to the main floor to greet fans. Beardo nods his head at me, mouthing something at me. I furrow my brow. “What?” My own voice sounds deafened. I quickly realize to take out my earplugs. Sound roars back into my eardrums. The crowd is still loud, but I can hear Beardo over them. “You coming down?” He repeats himself, pointing to the ballroom where the merch stand is set up. His curly bleached hair bounces with each step he takes down the stairs. “Only a lesser man would stay backstage.” He jokes. “…Nah. I need a minute.” Beardo nods his head in understanding before taking off down the rest of the steps. “Fix your fucking makeup, asshole! You look like a clown!” I yell down the corridor. “That’s the point!” He shouts back, I can hear the smile on his face. A girl screams out my name, probably recognizing my voice. I chew my lip and contemplate my options: the tour van is empty but parked outside, right in front the venue. If I make it out that way, I’ll be swamped with fans for an hour. Or, I can try the back exit, and wander through a cemetery late at night. I shudder and make my way out through the back. At least I’m not a lesser man. The heavy door opens with a whine, and a wave of crisp air nips through my shirt, my skin, my hair. I poke my head out, scouting for anybody that might be lingering around in hopes of meeting the band. I don’t blame them, I just don’t want any phones in my face right now. I hear the palm trees leaves bristling, soothing me. The moon is out, illuminating the cemetery. I hear a crunch of gravel some distance away. Some fans, their conversation indistinct, make their way closer to the back entrance. Without thinking, I step onto the cemetery grounds. The wet grass soaks my shoes as I step over grave markers, out of respect of the deceased. Tom Mills’ plaque, overrun with weeds and muck, catches my attention. Everybody else’s markers are carefully clipped around the edges. The group is coming closer, but they don’t see me yet. I want to rip and clear out the grass around Tom’s marker, but I might get seen if I stay any longer. Sorry, Tom. I’ll come back for you. Deeper into the grounds, I find Lois Hatcher’s marble mausoleum. I circle around it, and on the other side, Lois has so kindly provided me a beaten, worn marble bench. Time has worn butt grooves into it. I clap my hands together and bow to her, silently thanking her. I wipe the bench of any condensation and sit. The clouds cover the moon again, and now I am completely hidden away in the darkness. I take out my phone, compulsiveness taking over again. Why can’t I just do one show without scrambling to check social media feed? Part of me knows I need to make sure people had fun, but the other part of me knows it’s a lie. It wasn’t a good show. The vocals sucked. Nobody could understand you. Beardo had clown make-up on and you’re the one who made a fool of themselves on stage. Regret and remorse pool up in my eyes, blurring my vision. Frustrated tears roll down my cheek and I seethe with exasperation. And you have two more shows to do. And everyone will see how disgusting you are on stage. They’ll talk about it for days. You did this to yoursel- “Hey stranger!” A familiar voice calls out. I jerk my head toward the voice. It’s the girl from the record store. I forgot she was coming to the show. Her bleached hair resembles Beardo’s, but with more highlights. I can barely recognize her in the dark. She waggles her brow. “Did I spook ya?” Her grin alleviates me of any remaining anguish. “People don’t normally come out from the depths of a cemetery to greet their friends, Caroline.” “People are no fun. How’d the show go?” She pulls a joint and lighter from her flannel’s chest pocket and looks to me as if for approval. I don’t react, and I hope she can’t see my wet face. “It was fine.” It sounded very curt. No doubt she’ll notice. “Doesn’t sound like it.” Dammit. “I enjoyed the show, sick vocals, man.” “You buy any drinks at the bar? You should have mentioned you knew me, gotten the hook up.” “Nah.” She’s trying to light the joint, but the flame isn’t catching. “Scooch,” she says before sitting next to me. I cup the decrepit lighter with my hand and she tries again. “I’m no good with crowds of people. Alcohol doesn’t help. It’s rough.” With the joint lit, she takes a few test puffs before offering it to me. I accept. I take a drag and hold my breath. After a moment, I exhale. “I know how you feel.” I scratch my nose, trying to find my words. “…I had a real problem with it back then. Got clean, though. I think fans think I’m drinking again, but… I’m not. Not that I care about what they think about my recreational drug use…” I fall silent. We smoke, the sounds of the trees, crickets, and the lighter taking over for the time being. I’m feeling good. “I know it’s hard on you, the fans perception and stuff.” She says suddenly when she comes back from dumping the roach in the trash. “I know you’re never satisfied with yourself, Julian. I know I met you today and all, but I can tell.” I avert her gaze. It is true, we only did just meet today. I had swung around Amoeba earlier to pick up a record I forgot at another venue, but it went to shit. The cashier refused to sell me a problematic artist’s record, and it sent me into this vicious cycle of thought that I was definitely toxic for being associated with shitty artists. Once I scrambled out of the shop, I spotted Caroline snooping around my car. Instead of scaring her off, I wound up ranting, venting to her about my shit morning I had. I couldn’t control myself, but I’m glad I got it all out of my system. By the end, I wasn’t angry anymore. She revealed herself to me as a fan and was actually attending the show that night. I offered a ride and to hang out with the band because she seemed cool. She could read me like nobody else. It was an unfamiliar sensation, but it didn’t scare me. She declined. Never asked why she was checking my car out. “…So, Lois says, ‘you’re welcome, Julian.’ You got a crush, my man?” “Oh, you saw that?” I laugh sheepishly, a blush spreading across my face. “Nah, I heard it. Nobody ever acknowledges her, let alone thank her. They just squat on her bench.” “Heard me? But I – I didn’t say…” “Julian, here’s the deal. You’ve been super nice to the deceased for your entire life, and I guess I was the one assigned to be your surveyor, or whatever.” “My what? Are you high already?” “Every time I’ve visited you, you were alone, having a breakdown. Surveyors are supposed to keep their person safe. I gotta keep you sane, bud. I was anxious bitch when I was alive. This overwhelming anxiety and stress will kill you, just like it killed me.” Chills shiver up my spine, and I don’t feel the good high anymore. My stomach churns, the world is spinning. There are echoes of voices I’ve never heard, wandering lost voices. I can hear it all. Then, deafening silence. “Vanity can easily overtake wisdom. I know you’d rather be understood than to be loved.” The crickets and rustling leaves can be heard again, and I look at her. “So, you’re… dead?” “Oh, big time. I’d prefer you call me a ghoul and not a ghost. Sounds cooler. Anyway, Jules, will you let me help you? Think of me as your new weed dealer.” The voice inside me, the pattern of emptiness, is also gone. I sit up straight, my stomach and vision returning to normal. “Before I out-smoke a ghoul, can we fix up Tom Mills’ marker?” Caroline beams at me. “He’d appreciate that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if you'd prefer to read the longer 16 page version of this story. I just want this so people can leave some constructive criticism. Thanks for reading.


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